


Warm Marble

by banana_thief



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Anal Sex, M/M, Rimming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-21
Updated: 2018-03-21
Packaged: 2019-04-05 11:55:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14043750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/banana_thief/pseuds/banana_thief
Summary: A Pygmalion/Galatea!AU for aigle on tumblr for the Ignoct White Day Gift Exchange.Ignis is commissioned to sculpt a beautiful man.





	Warm Marble

For _aigle_

~

Warm Marble

 

            Ignis was surprised to find a well-dressed man standing in his lecture hall after class. The man allowed the students to funnel past him and out of the massive classroom. Ignis paused, holding his lecture notes between his long fingers, and watched as the man approached.

            “Ardyn Izunia,” the man said, tipping his hat, and holding out his hand to the bespectacled professor.

            “Ignis Scientia.” He shook Ardyn’s hand and took the business card offered to him. Ignis wasn’t entirely sure who he was or what kind of company he worked for, but he had an undeniable air of importance and authority. “What can I do for you?”

            “I saw your work at the Costlemark Gallery. Impressive. I heard you accept commissions.” Ardyn made himself comfortable and sat on top of Ignis’s desk—just at the edge. He swung a leg back and forth—playful.

            Ignis pursed his lips at the display. “I do.”

            “What would sixty grand get me?”

            Ignis nearly dropped his lecture notes. He shuffled the papers and cleared his throat. “What type of material?”

            “Granite.”

            “I don’t work with granite.”

            “Marble then.”

            “A full figure—full-scale—it’ll take around three months. I assume you’re commissioning me for a sculpted statue. What do you have in mind?”

            “A man. Beautiful. Nude.” Ignis waited for more but Ardyn simply stared at him as a strange smile stretched across his lips.

“All right,” Ignis said.

~

           With sixty grand in his pocket and three months to work, Ignis readied his studio for his latest commission. Ardyn was as cagey as they came, but he had paid up front, in full. Ignis would have to literally chip away at the commission around work, it would be a process, but one he could manage. He pulled up a stool in front of his massive block of marble. _A man, beautiful and nude._ Ignis chuckled. What if his depiction of beautiful didn’t match Ardyn’s? It wasn’t like he could make changes. After all, once he started carving into the metamorphic rock that was it—it was in the hands of the muses—of the gods. No pressure.

            He was given no references, no sketch, no photos. Ignis sighed. He slipped off his glasses and pinched the space between his eyes. What had he gotten himself into? The money was too enticing. He had simply agreed. Sixty grand all at once—how could he say no? He stood and made his way over to his standing desk, littered with blocks of wrapped clay and scattered drafting paper. Ignis’s loft had doubled as his art studio—his creative space. It was sparse, well-lit with natural light from the wide windows leading to an impressive balcony. A large kitchen opened into the rest of the space, hardwood floors—ancient and dark with time. His furniture was simple, functional—a king sized bed, a clawfoot velvet sofa, bookshelves stacked and sagging under the weight of heavy hardcovered artbooks. He leaned over his desk—putting his full weight onto his palms. _A beautiful man._ He looked over his shoulder at the marble.

            It was Ignis’s job now to free a man’s form trapped inside that stone. Again, no pressure. A warm wind shifted his linen curtains, blew in some thin leaves from the weeping willow tree rustling just outside.

            He’d start now. No need for clay models, no need for drafting. Ignis picked up his point chisel and mallet and brought them over to the towering marble. He ran his hand along the smooth surface—over the embedded faint swirls and branched veins. He walked circles around it, fingers ghosting the surface. _A man._ Ignis paused, his back to the opened windows. The afternoon sunlight warmed the thin fabric stretched across his shoulders. What type of man could he bring to life from this stone? What could be born from the near translucent and waxy surface?

            He raised his hefty point chisel and started pitching off large portions of the stone. He’d never done this before—he’d never delved right into a sculpture. It was a little scary. Mostly exhilarating. With each controlled strike of his mallet on chisel, Ignis carved away, breath heavy with the force. Years of experience guided his hand—his strikes. The stone shattered about Ignis as he began to rhythmically work his way around—turning his tool in hand as he quickly and skillfully freed a form from a single mass.

~

            Almost a month had passed. Ignis found himself working quickly, not out of obligation but out of some inexplicable frenzy. The roughing out phrase had been completed, and an overall shape had been freed. It was dynamic, whatever this man of stone was—graceful and slender limbed—faceless. Ignis wrung his hands, enchanted by how the sunlight fell upon the soft marble—casting shadows, illuminating curves. He approached the mysterious figure with a caliber and stick of charcoal. Measuring and marking the white stone for further carving.

            Ignis’s phone rang, startling him. He walked over to his desk and answered the call. “Hello?”

            “Mr. Scientia! How is my statue coming along?” Ardyn asked.

            Ignis looked over at the budding sculpture drenched in sunlight. He furrowed his brow. He had been keeping his patron up-to-date with emails. “It’s coming along fine.” So why the phone call?

            “Would it be possible to get a photo of it?”

            “There’s not much to look at right now,” Ignis lied, feeling oddly protective over his work.

            “Ah, I see. I suppose there wouldn’t. Well, I’ll leave you to your work.”

            The call ended. Ignis lowered his phone—his gaze still fixed on the sun kissed marble. Something dawned on him, something obvious.

            He’d have to part with his work.

~

            Two months in. Fine tuning. Ignis was working fast indeed.

            During his art history lecture all he thought about was his statue waiting for him at home. He had taken to calling it his prince—since over the weeks the form and face had taken on a noble aura, almost opulent. Sublime. Soft. His statue was so soft somehow. He started having dreams about the man made of marble. Abstract dreams—ones he’d forget immediately upon waking—but he knew he had them. Ignis had never been so immersed in his creativity—in his process. It was overwhelming. He felt intoxicated.

            He used his rasp and riffler files to refine his work. Enhanced the man’s lovely eyes, the curve of his cheek, the slope of his neck—down to the rest of his sinewy body. Carefully cultivated and carved. Each muscle, each limb, each fingernail... beautiful. Or at least Ignis believed them to be. Sweeping strokes brought out the locks of hair, the pillow of his lips, and the fan of his lashes. Delicate. His prince was so delicate. Ignis found himself caressing the marble’s cheek. Catching himself—he pulled his hand away, embarrassed.

            He’d be parting with his prince. The thought filled him with grief.

~

            Sand cloth and emery—abrading away at the marble’s surface. Polishing and smoothing the stone—bringing forth its luster, its natural color, its hidden patterns. His Prince practically glowed.

            The final month, with weeks to spare. Ignis refined his prince. Youthful but weary-eyed, the stone man appeared to carry the weight of the world on his bare shoulders, but there was fire in his eyes, a desire, life— _almost_. Ignis stepped back and marveled at his own artistry. He had created something truly beautiful. Perfect. Weeks spent with his hammer and point work—transferring his energy into the stone. Ignis wiped his brow, plopped down on his wooden floor, and peered up at his unbridled prince. It was night now. He’d leave the final touches for tomorrow morning. He’d use some tin oxide and bring out that final luster. Then he’d call Ardyn and arrange the delivery. Maybe he’d receive a generous tip.

            A blustery wind blew from the opened balcony. It carried the scent of approaching rain. Ignis remained on the dusty floor and wrapped his arms around his legs, drawing his knees close to his chest. He had to name him, his creation. The moon was full, and the night was heavy with incoming clouds. The weeping willow outside scraped against the building. It was so quiet. Ignis stared at his marble man.

            “Noctis,” Ignis said, quiet, low—to no one. “Your name is Noctis, and you’re a prince. You’re my prince.” He stood and brushed the dust off his backside. He suddenly felt so tired, his body felt heavy, his eyelids drooped. Sleep. He needed to sleep.

 

            Ignis woke at the feel of weight on his bed. He slowly opened his eyes. Saw darkness, and then the low glow of the moon beyond his opened balcony. He shivered and pulled the covers to his chin. He closed his eyes. _I thought I closed—_ He sat up, quickly, and met the gaze of a young man sitting on the edge of his bed. Ignis yelped and sat back—slamming himself against his headboard. The dark-haired man looked startled but then smiled. Ignis looked over at his statue—gone. He looked at the naked man at the foot of his bed. He gasped.

            “Who’re you?”

            The man pointed at himself, equally confused.

            “Are you—were you—” Ignis’s head reeled. He grabbed his glasses from his night table and slipped them on. “Noctis?”

            The young man crawled his way over. Ignis shot out of bed and stumbled over to the opened balcony. “Did you come in from—” He looked at the empty space where his statue once stood. “Ah. There’s no way. I’m dreaming.” Ignis pinched himself. “This is a dream.” The pinch hurt.

            Noctis stepped away from the bed and slowly walked over to Ignis.

            Ignis backed up, past his balcony doors—ass bumping into the balcony’s railing. There was dew in the air. Noctis approached, naked, and illuminated in moonlight. The cold wind caught his hair, shifting his bangs. He lifted a slender hand to his eyes and pushed the locks away. Ignis’s breath hitched. His prince approached slowly, silently—until he was in front of his creator. Ignis’s breathing was deep and heavy. Noctis— _his Noctis_ —was alive. Lips pink, eyes blue, skin smooth—chest rising and falling with each breath. Ignis slowly raised a hand and brought it to Noctis’s cheek. He was warm. Ignis felt something stir within him—something silky and hot. He dragged his thumb down to Noctis’s bottom lip and caressed it. It felt plump and Ignis gasped as Noctis took the digit into his mouth—his teeth grazing softly, the inside of his mouth warm and wet, and Ignis wanted to kiss him suddenly. Taste him.

            He drew close to his prince, hesitated—lips parted. This was just a dream. It had to be. Some strange subconscious manifestation of his desires or something. Noctis was so quiet, watchful, his gaze like water and the heat from his flesh was so beguiling. Ignis leaned in and kissed him, followed it with a low drawn out moan because his prince’s mouth was everything he didn’t know he craved. Ignis lost himself in their kiss—his fingers lost in the inky locks of Noctis’s soft hair. The prince pressed his body against Ignis’s and allowed himself to be handled and offered his tongue to his creator with such fervor. He tasted sweet. Ignis was amazed—his hands drifted downwards, down the curve of Noctis’s back. He relished the feel of his prince’s taut muscles, and cupped his ass, groaning at the new hardness pressed between his thighs.

            Ignis gently gripped the back of Noctis’s hair and slowly pulled his head back, exposing his neck. Ignis sucked the thin flesh there—tasting salt—marveling at it. He brought his lips down and snared a pink nipple between his teeth—gentle. His prince flinched, goosebumps graced his skin as Ignis lapped away at the bud. Its twin received equal attention. He looked down at Noctis’s erection and bit his bottom lip. If this was a dream, Ignis would take full advantage of it. He took his prince’s hand and led him back inside, over to his bed. Noctis allowed himself to be pushed onto the plush bedding, he smiled up at Ignis and relaxed back—stretching just _so_ —enough to display beautifully crafted ribs and thick thighs, flushed with need. Ignis undressed and straddled his prince. Kissed him, trailed his lips down, once again to his chest, further down to his bellybutton, down to his hard dick. Ignis slid his mouth over it and moaned at its warm and girth—at the feel of his head—the slit—the taste of precum. Ignis sucked. He gazed up at his prince—head thrown back in silent pleasure, body writhing at the new sensations coursing through him.

            Noctis wrapped his thighs around Ignis’s head drawing him closer, clearly wanting more, wanting release. Ignis lapped and sucked, his fingers groping at the supple flesh hugging his head. Noctis moaned—soft—and Ignis looked up at him, wanting to hear more. He pulled away from his prince and walked over to his nightstand.

            “Lie on your stomach.” Ignis was embarrassed by the husky intonation of his words. He grabbed a tiny bottle of lube from the drawer.

            Noctis looked up at him and rolled onto his belly. His ass looked amazing. Ignis was proud of his creation. He positioned himself behind Noctis and gently gripped his fine work—spreading it. Glorious. A perfect pink pucker. Ignis couldn’t help himself, he buried his face between the soft cheeks and lapped away at it—relishing the taste—completely aroused by his actions and Noctis’s soft moans. _More._ Ignis needed more. He shoved his tongue into the unyielding hole and Noctis squirmed beneath him.

            “Please—”

            Ignis pulled away, astounded by his prince’s voice. “What?”

            Noctis buried his face into a pillow. “Please,” he murmured, lifting his ass slightly.

            Ignis needed no further begging. He squeezed cold lube onto his palm and worked his own erection—his eyes drinking in Noctis’s smooth back, his mused hair. He eased a slickened finger into his prince, astounded by the heat and tightness inside of him. Noctis ground his hips into the mattress and spread his thighs. His moans were delicious. Ignis eased another finger in, slow. Then another—gently stretching the other man—prepping him. It was all so intimate, Ignis was dizzy with lust, with ardor. He had to watch Noctis, he had to observe every minute facial twitch as he pleasured him, so he turned his prince over. Breath stolen as he looked down at the young man whose cheeks, neck and chest were rosy with desire. Thick lashed lids half open, half concealing deep blue eyes. Ignis gripped Noctis’s thighs and pushed them to his chest, rolling him slightly, angling him just right. He held his breath as he nudged the tip of his dick against the opening. With his hand, he guided himself in, unhurried and gentle—gasping at the sensation slowly surrounding him. Noctis’s face twisted with a combination of pain and pleasure and the look alone was almost enough to send Ignis over the edge. But he closed his eyes and slid himself deeper until he was completely enveloped. He gave his prince a moment to steady his breathing, and then opened his eyes, and then began thrusting.

            He couldn’t be tender. It all felt too good. Too perfect. Ignis fucked the young man. The mattress groaned under their weight and movement—the headboard knocked against the wall. Ignis had lost his glasses at some point, his hair was a mess, his groans were unchecked and throaty with pleasure. He cursed and kissed and folded his prince into all sorts of contortions—chasing that release, lost in the pleasure coating him, stroking him—milking him. Noctis came—hard—his cum dotted his stomach and chest. Ignis got a taste of it. Relished it. He lapped it up like it were the finest honey. His fucking never ceased, his thrusts picked up speed and force, so much so that he had his sweet prince crying out—begging to be filled.

            Ignis came.

            He pulled out of his lover, watched as his seed spilled out—creamy down Noctis’s quivering thigh. Ignis fell onto his back beside his creation. The two looked at one another, drowsy and satisfied.

            Ignis had no idea what brought Noctis to life, but he knew Ardyn couldn’t have him. Even if this were a dream, Ardyn couldn’t have him.

            That sixty grand would have to be returned. A small price to pay.

 

End.

**Author's Note:**

> A requested Pygmalion/Galatea!AU for aigle on tumblr for the Ignoct White Day Gift Exchange.  
> So, this was done in one-go. I sat down, played Stateless’s self-titled album in the background, and allowed my hands to type away. Just one long writing session. This is the outcome. I hope you—aigle—enjoyed this as much as I enjoyed writing it. Please forgive any typos or weird sentences. I’ll come back and polish this up (with more setting and details and whatnot), but I thought I’d share it raw and as-is for the sake of showing my spur-of-the-moment creative process.  
> Kudos are appreciated!  
> Thanks for reading!


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